In Which Fantasies Are Revealed
by DoubleDecks
Summary: Haddock/Tintin SLASH - Tintin ends up loosely divulging several fantasies in a stream of heated consciousness while something of monumental importance is actually occurring. Haddock has a much simpler fantasy. Warnings: slave/master kink, mild implied underage, dub-con, voyeurism
1. Tintin's Needlessly Complicated Fantasy

**IN WHICH FANTASIES ARE REVEALED**

* * *

I awaken suddenly with a start.

Something is wrong. Terribly and urgently wrong.

I have overslept! This is the first time this has happened to me! How, how could I have let this happen? I had a perfect track record for over a decade, and one disastrous lapse in discipline has cost me-

My hands roam the sheets and suddenly I feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders. No. I remember where I am. I relax. My sacrifice wasn't for naught.

It must have happened because, for the first time in my life, I have known comfort.

I am beginning a fresh chapter, as it were; waking up sandwiched between some twenty-odd pillows and this embroidered silk duvet that seems to continue in all directions for miles – how the previous owners of this estate got anything done, I'll never know!

With some difficulty I climb out of the enormous four-poster and tug open the window, unable to subdue a small gasp when I see the expanse of the flower-lined drive two stories below winding into a beautiful countryside. It's still partially masked by fog and yet remains the most vibrant green under the morning sunlight, speckled sparsely with lush trees. There are some foremen working on the fountain below and I wave to them.

I feel tingly all over as I dress and walk down the stairs - I fear I may trip because I'm excited; so excited...Moulinsart feels like all of the places I want to be at once comprised. The meadow I saw out the window, the hills – they look as if they could be anywhere. I don't want to speak too soon but I feel I could die here.

My head is getting warm when I reach the atrium and when I come into the dining room the Captain _isn't even wearing clothing_- oh…I can see the pajamas beneath his bathrobe, I suppose…but my…he's…wet, right out of the bath. Damp and dripping and fresher than I've probably ever smelled him when I sit down.

I love breakfast here. I want to eat it forever. I want to stay close to him like this, adjacent to his seat, leaning into his space to read his paper with him, our legs almost touching and his eyes so piercing as they go down every line of the article…I can see he takes his coffee sweet and light. When he's through fixing it it's the same shade as my hair, almost. Perhaps he might like me too because I am so milky and slight. I hope I do not look tired. I hope I look bright and warm and a little bit mischievous, and I hope he is noticing.

Oh goodness, the waffles are coming out. It's like he knows this is my favorite food and he asked specifically after it. Does that mean he'd want to…have me? Could I be that boy? He's sitting like he's had men before as he pours his syrup, like he's kept boys; or could it be the complete opposite - could he have had a lot of women? What if he's a pervert? What if he talks to me about nothing but women, tries to get me to meet women, consumes women wherever he goes?

If he does love women so, could I be pretty enough to make him want me?

He looks at me like he wants me, but then again he's part of everything – everything which might not understand what I want for us. What if the world falls out from around me when I ask him, what if it cannot process my existence when I touch his thigh?

How could he resist me, though?

I've never told anyone this, but I've secretly wanted from the age of fifteen to find a wealthy benefactor to take care of me as his pet. And it's almost disgusting, after I had begun to tentatively feel for this man, how soon he suddenly became my deepest, darkest fetish. That's got to be cheating of some sort. Not fair.

This is getting me hot even now, I fear. I hope he doesn't see me turning pink. Nestor is putting strawberries on the waffles now. He's placing a bowl of cream on the table and I just want to drop to my knees and start rubbing myself against the Captain's hand like he's my master. I want to climb up from between his thighs and grasp his waist; in my mind I am positively slithering around him like a snake but in reality we're still barely touching, our knees mere centimeters away.

Oh gosh, I'm breathing harder now and he sees me. Oh crumbs, what if he knows of my unchaste, hysterical thoughts and sends me to an asylum? I've only been once by accident; do not wish to return for anything so stupid and shallow.

But if he responds favorably? Ah, but then I'll know that men can be attracted to me. I'll know that men have probably desired me, wanted to do things to me – this coffee is too bitter, I need something sweeter. I need the whipped cream, and now I'm spooning it into my coffee heavily; it's making a mess on the table. I need more, more whipped cream on my waffles, more on everything. If I could I would empty it all onto my plate and lap it up in front of him, or lick it from his beard. Or put it on myself so he could lick it from me.

I wonder as I eat how he might react to that, finding me without clothes on when he came home, his dearest, most _platonic_friend Tintin, suddenly sitting on his bed covered in cream and waiting to be ravaged.

I wonder if I could have it in me to be that boy.

_If we were together_, I dream, _I'd think I might like the world to know._I would! I'd want them to know that Tintin, world famous reporter, is preoccupied in all his free hours with his man; being protected and doted on and conquered, and conquered, and conquered….

And they must know, they absolutely _must_know that I love it, that I am a willing participant; that he is not tricking me or baiting me with expensive gifts as older men won't to do – but that I undoubtedly love him with every inch of my young heart and that I will let him do it again and again and again and again; and I will laugh as he does it, laugh and writhe and cry in passion; and sometimes shout, shout words they will never ever hear me say in polite conversation.

Sometimes I would shout terrible and lewd things because I am a whore; I am just a little whore inside who has wants and needs like everybody – only I can solve cases faster than the police can, can catch you in the act of scheming your disgusting, criminal schemes; and on top of that I would fuck better than you.

I would have something special. Something special all good people deserve to have, and should (and perhaps a few nasty people ought to give it a try that they might become better), and I would be given it in the form of this foul-mouthed, loyal, ill-tempered, beautiful son-of-a-gun. We would worship each other forever. We would always remain the same, even when the seasons change and the styles change; we'd always fancy each other…

He sees me staring at him as this is all playing out in my head – the years and years I imagine being with him, all the years I've lived in those few minutes he's been looking at me; and I say, and my voice cracks,

"Captain?"

I can tell what it is he wants to say.

He wants to ask '_What is it, boy_?' but I think he knows too, what I'm feeling right now. We've both been so silent there is no way to read this situation in any other fashion. I almost don't want it to happen, nearly don't want it to. I wish I could be here forever, on this thin line where I cannot tell what he is thinking. I almost want him to reject me so I can want him more, when _suddenly he grabs my head, pressing his lips to mine across the table -_

No, no…here is not where it would happen. I get up and go to the garden. Perhaps there it will happen?

He finishes his coffee quickly and follows me, but only to the door, and he asks me has the mail come yet?

And I smile back at him and say no, because maybe we should stay this way, him never having me, this intelligent boy with orange hair – the hair, I know he wants it. I know he wants to grab it. I know he's probably imagined (against his better nature) smugglers or gangsters grabbing it and forcing me to perform fellacio, but thankfully this has never happened. He knows it, that I'm untainted; and he wants to be the one who does that, I suspect.

If he thought I had been with many men, might he be comforted somehow? Would he be self-conscious? He's a very self-conscious man, but I think he is the most attractive thing I've ever seen. He's a bear, he's a god, he's still standing by the door with his dressing robe on, for heaven's sake.

I come back and I want to kiss him here, over the threshold, but that too feels wrong, like I'm visiting him; him inside with his bathrobe and me on the porch in my clothes like I've just wandered in, appeared from some mystery location – not like I am now, a true resident as he is.

I come inside and as he turns around I index the manor immediately. Is there any way to get onto the roof of the house tonight? Is there a flat area at all? How do the stars look in the countryside at night? But won't it be too impersonal in the dark, my move?

May I ask him to get into my bed tonight instead? What about lunchtime? Is it too late for that? I want to kiss him and then perhaps leave him for the rest of the day, hard and yearning and angry. I'd like him to take out on me all the times he was frustrated with me; all the times I denied him a drink or a smoke, all the times I became upset with him in my prudish hubris. I want him to take it all out on me by fucking me hard; I need for him to spank me until I cry.

Though I've solved his mystery with him, and mostly _for_him, I wish we could become comfortable enough with one another for him to pretend sometimes that I am rather simple – simple and supple and like the common houseboy I am sometimes at heart; someone he only keeps around for pleasure.

I can imagine it now, he as the reporter and not I; all the weight lifted off my shoulders as I chase the heels of this nautical journalist wherever he may go as he sails everywhere, solves everything,_ does_ everything – and I am at his side, his youthful ginger companion; and everyone _knows_what we do and why he keeps me…others might catch onto how wild I am behind closed doors and they would try to get at me shamelessly and he would fight them all off.

He's heading back into the dining room and I wonder if I should take him for a ride on my motorcycle just to feel him hug me close from behind.

He turns back around a second time. "Are you okay?" he asks me, and now I have to answer.

I don't know what to say.

I don't know how to condense the entirety of my life's fantasy over breakfast into one answer.

My heart is singing, and all I can say is,

"I want to be your boy."

He's confused. He must think I want him to adopt me. To be his son.

No, no, no.

"I want to be _your_ boy," I say, licking my lips and placing both of my hands on one of his arms as if he is chaperoning me to some event. "…your _only_boy."

He's not looking at me, but simply standing frozen. And so thusly I am as well, though I feel far from cold – I'm actually getting quite hot again (because I have obviously been bad just now) and though I try to subside it through the very real panic that's enveloping me I feel the fantasy blossoming in the corner of my mind without my consent, only causing me to become more aroused.

He turns and probably can see now that my face is red, probably imagining what he may do with me; and there's no way he can't see my arousal now, because I've let go of him and my hands are at my sides. I'm looking down like a schoolboy ashamed of himself, how could he not want me? If he didn't, he does now; I am sure of it.

He still looks confused and me, I always get what I want; so I lean in and I kiss him on the corner of his mouth, gently brushing our lips together before moving mine along his moustache and across his chin and I bite him, I _bite_his beard.

Before he knows it I'm putting his hands on me; making him lift me up, one arm under each thigh, forcing me to straddle him as he stands in the middle of the main hall, him still dripping with bathwater onto the tiles. I fear _he_may slip up the stairs as he carries me, still kissing him, and as the clock chimes go off below us I realize it is noon and I have made a good decision – noon is the midnight of days. When all is revealed at noon there is no night to punctuate the confession and the vision; there is no time to dream, only to do.

For a moment I wish I was back at my apartment, able to invite him in for the first time in more ways than one at my old place of residence…able to proudly show him how quaintly I live, to make him feel that much worse for plunging himself into me again and again in my small, clean bedroom; and I want my old neighbors and acquaintances to see him leave, see me come down to get my mail in my robe with my tuft disheveled, my eyes bleary; obviously I will have spent the whole night fucking, amongst the sculptures and pictures and all the books I own, all the work I've done. I'll smile my innocent smile at Mrs. Finch as I get my letters, but she'll see love marks on my neck and my lips all swollen and pink, and she'll know where I've been and what I've done and just who I've taken into my mouth several times over, and she'll see him return again and again and again…

But, no. I am glad I'm at Moulinsart – as I said, I have never felt more at home. He's taking me into his bedroom now. I'm glad he's not taking me to mine because I've never seen his – it's magnificent, his bed is magnificent and it's still only noon!

He locks the door and climbs onto me; for a second I'm afraid, afraid this is going to be too much for me, that I won't want to – but when I see my hands opening his bathrobe and pajama shirt of their own accord and his chest his revealed, broad and covered in thick hair, I reconsider; and when it is rubbing across my shirt, all of his weight on me as the wetness of him soaks into my clothing, I_ know_I want this.

I hear myself whimper and now he's doing the same thing to me, his hands pulling my sweater off and opening my shirt - and I jump - I probably look so small next to him, small but able; and he still hasn't spoken in all this time since I kissed him.

"I want to talk," I hear myself say.

He says, "What would you like to talk about?" and it is a voice I've never heard him use before. It's gruff and calculating and to know a man like Haddock is not always bumbling and confused, not always sad or angry or ornery; but that he knows what he's doing, makes me feel unbelievably quickly. Even now it's as if he knows what he's doing with my body; he's touching it as if he's had practice in doing so even though we've never touched before this moment.

"Like I said," I gasp, "I want to be your boy."

And he growls, "My one and only?"

And I say, "Yes…yes!" as he tugs my trousers down and takes me in his mouth – and I say, I _whine_that I want to sleep in his bed and wear his hat with nothing else on and I want to share a hotel room in a distant land and conduct official business with a sultanate mere minutes after servicing my Captain in the palace washroom and as he climbs back up on his elbows to face me my chest is going up and down rapidly.

He asks me, but have I ever done it?

No, no I haven't, I say, and then I ask him might I say something vulgar? And I lean in and whisper, "Please break me in."

I can tell he doesn't think it vulgar, but I do – perhaps he is not thinking of it in the same way I am. He is thinking of breaking me in gently, of claiming me politely; and though I do not want him to really do it I am imagining him making me take all of him at once. I imagine him holding my neck down with a single slippery hand, telling me that I'm a good boy. Of course, I am smart enough to realize this is a mere echo of a faceless old fantasy from long ago; but now that he's actually doing it, slipping his finger inside me gently, I can allow myself to revel in its wake.

Though the sensation burns, it becomes easier as he moves it in and out…and all I can think is that I want him to wear the hat, sometimes. I call him "Captain" out of respect but if we were to embark on a relationship he would probably want me to call him "Archibald." "Archibald," or, "Archie," I think, and I feel suddenly fuller now; feel myself stretching wider because I think there is another finger there, now.

He might want me to call him "Archie," but I want him to wear the hat and make me call him his Captain. I want to go on boat trips with him and be his cabin boy - dust and organize his belongings and when he comes in ask him if he'd like a drink, and he'd say no, he'd like something else, and then he'd take me by the waist and have me on that tiny bed by the porthole, and something's…_hurting_, now. I groan.

He's easing a third finger into me and I feel like I could just pop.

I hadn't even noticed him slowly stroking me up and down. If I was pink before I am a cherry now. I put my hand on my face and I could just weep from how full I feel, how good it is.

"I don't know if I can-" I say.

And he tells me, "I would be glad to stay like this the rest of my life if I had to, lad; you look incredible."

And I laugh out of embarrassment. I'm also nervous, so nervous I will pop early and go everywhere and be left without it, without what I need in me right this very second, what my entire body is trembling for. I can see it from between the fingers over my eye, through my legs and his – it's sticking proudly out from the slit in his pajama trousers and bathrobe unrestrained…it's very large but looks very straight and accommodating and like I may not die after all and I tell him go on, then.

I think hard. I think hard about the freshness of him, the water that's still dripping from him onto my forehead like some sort of Chinese water torture and my legs, I can see them in front of me now; they're on his shoulders, when did they get there?

He leans in and I gasp as I feel it – its blunt end is slipping inside my hole, and he pushes my legs apart further and I'm whimpering again, I have been this whole time, still red in the face and grabbing the sheets as he guides himself in; and I surprise even myself when I take my legs from him and pull them even further back toward my head.

He looks at me in shock. Yoga, I tell him breathlessly, coy.

He kisses me again, laughing as if he has won the lottery, and when he begins to fuck me it feels strange.

It feels strange, it feels odd, it feels as if I've got a cramp – but suddenly I feel it slipping somewhere else, rubbing up against the most splendid little bit I never knew I had. I did not expect my happiest place to be situated there, in the most unspeakable location, but I suppose there's a reason rich men take houseboys, and why houseboys stay.

I spring to life. The cramp is gone and I feel him – every inch of him filling me up, and I must have loosened a good deal because he's thrusting harder and harder, and I'm shouting into my hand now. He keeps asking me, "Is it good, is it good?" and I'm actually crying, genuine tears streaming down my face, but also nodding furiously.

I'm sure that is frightening for him, to see me like that, but he's continuing because he knows that if he stopped now I could just kill him, downright kill him – stop speaking to him forever and move out of Moulinsart and back to my apartment, scorning him until the end of days for stopping; for ruining my first and most perfect liaison, but he is not! Alors, we were made for each other.

I can already feel my pleasure mounting. His hair is still so wet and his beard is so coarse when my fingers find it and my body is so folded; it's practically folded in half, for godsakes – and what a sight, with the sun filtering through the trees in the windows and his jet-black hair against the white paneling of his room, and his bathrobe still on – and he really is breaking me, I fear; breaking all my senses and holding me down and defiling me, making a filthy boy out of me, and I beg to him, I say in French -

"I am going to come, please have me from behind!"

He understands me. I am flipped onto my stomach and he takes me by the hips roughly as I grip the headboard.

"I think I'm going to scream!" I scream, and he says it doesn't matter because we're already both shouting so much. Nestor can probably hear us, he says, and that he trusts him not only with our delectable little secret, but also to have a good pair of headphones for his record player.

He had better, because I'm wailing as the Captain bounces my hips off his, and the sound of our flesh slapping together is making me quake. I'm going to be done for at any moment.

I tell him to grab my hair, and whether he doesn't hear me at first or is reluctant to I shout at him to.

He grasps my quiff firmly in his fist and I cry worriedly as I stroke myself over the edge, my semen spilling out of me onto the sheets and I immediately feel him withdraw and then his own seed is spurting onto my back and a bit on my neck.

I lay facedown in the pillows for a leisurely amount of time, making sure he saw what it was he did.

And then I turn around and look at him and he's more handsome than he was earlier, his hair tousled in every direction; he's still stroking his beard and admiring his work.

"Then I'm yours?" I say, and he lifts his eyebrows and tells me that if I don't consider myself to be his after _that_, then I'll never be.

I bite my lip and hug the pillow. "What er…what after that," he says bashfully as his eyes meet mine, and suddenly he looks very youthful as well; I can imagine exactly what he looked like as a young man. I smile back at that young man, knowing full well I will make life more exciting for both him and the parts of him that fear growing old.

"Care to take your new houseboy around town?" I ask him and he says, "Sure, but you're going to have to put on some clothes."

I would never have expected him to be as good as he is at flirting but he is apparently charming the pants off me so well that I am already lying beneath him naked and spent upon when he does.

I wonder if people will see the way I hang on him now, with my eyes and my words and perhaps my hands now – maybe I will loop a wrist into the crook of his elbow and appear to be leading him, though my grip will soften and soon he will be leading me. People will not be sure whether I am his protégé or his young lover; they will just have to be left to their imaginations.

We both get dressed. It's springtime, so he rolls the sleeves of his sweater up and I can do with a simple white shirt as it turns out, and as we stroll past the shops in town I give him glances, supple looks. When we walk into the café there is a warmth between us I can tell other people can sense. Maybe when I speak with them they'll see my face luminous with the glow of fulfilled lust and with only the Captain by my side what conclusion would they come to?

Perhaps they will imagine us, having each other in the kitchen or in the bath or in the Captain's bedroom; which is now _our_ bedroom, it belongs to_ us_– in our bedroom and I'm wearing my outfit from my brief stint as a Colonel, and it would be a very exciting scene indeed. Oh, the things we'll do!

There will be times when I'm tired, or when I'm sick; or when he's tired, or when he's sick; or when we'll fight, but I'll always be his boy. And it works the other way around too - beyond the love and care we have for each other there will always be that novelty of being naughty with an older man that will have me waiting for him in the bedroom until I am on my deathbed.

And some days! Oh – some days we will act like a married couple, my yawning and leaning on his shoulder during a long train ride home and him coming home late and my being upset; and on other days we will have trysts in the garden and pool as if we are not only shielding it from Nestor out of politeness but also from some imaginary wife that will appear from the manor and berate my Captain for running about with the houseboy.

Breakfasts and holidays and games under the covers for years to come, I have done it. I've found my home in Moulinsart, as it is all the places I want to be, and the master of it all the men I want to have.


	2. Haddock's Fantasy, Which Is Simpler

Dinner parties are always such an enormous fuss, all these people showing up to your house expecting entertainment, and conversation, and _ambiance_; though 'house' is a vast understatement for a man of Archibald Haddock's stature, he feels as stressed hosting a party at a mansion as he would attempting to usher the same two-hundred-odd guests into a small flat that can only contain twenty-five.

The party he's hosting in his imagination, however, is going much smoother than expected. He doesn't even mind when Bianca's raucous, fluttery call echoes through the atrium as she announces her arrival, followed by a gaggle of mystery women she saw fit to bring along; and he finds himself able to maintain a gentlemanly composure for once, planting a kiss on her hand without argument and smiling warmly when she does, in fact, remember his name - as if that would ever happen, in reality, but an old man can dream, can't he?

He turns to see Tintin bashfully coming down the stairs in his brown suit, an equally warm smile on his face as he greets the opera singer with a hug. They leap into an animated conversation about theater (as they actually won't to do in actual life - Haddock had never dreamed those two would have so much to talk about!), which concludes only when Tintin produces a pair of ornate earrings from his pocket and presents them to her.

"Why," Bianca gasps, "thank you, my darling boy! They're absolutely _stunning_! You must tell me where you got them!"

"They're yours, actually. You left them here. We found them hanging on a chandelier."

Haddock roams away to mingle, chuckling as he hears Bianca cry behind him, "_Whatever were they doing up there?!_"

He only, however, makes it as far as the entryway to the foyer.

"Um, _Captain_," he hears the boy's voice behind him, suddenly close and clear and very _insistent_, as if Haddock has forgotten something of grave importance.

"What, what is it?" he inquires, turning to face the young man.

Against his chocolate suit Tintin's freckles stand out almost ridiculously (Haddock often notices in reality how much that particular suit brings attention to them) and in the waning sunlight of the tall atrium windows it appears as if someone has bespeckled caramel generously onto the youth's face like paint onto a Pollock. They would simply overwhelm his features if the lad's eyes weren't as bright as they were, nose as defined, mouth as perfect...

At the moment that perfect mouth appears to be lost for words, Tintin smoothing down the back of his hair and glancing up at the older man slyly.

"There's a...a stain, on my jacket," he says, thumbing the tweed edge of his lapel with his other hand. "Perhaps you might join me in the linen closet for a moment to...help me with it?" he flashes the Captain a wholesome grin.

"Oh...you ought to give it to Nestor, love, I've got to greet all these people," Haddock mumbles into the ginger's ear, sipping his champagne as he scans the room.

"Oh, but Captain! It needn't take more than twenty minutes, I've..." the boy glances down, a bemused, sultry smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "...already soaked it."

Haddock's eyebrows raise and his voice drops a register as he comprehends. "Have you, now?" he growls.

"Yes..._very _thoroughly," Tintin replies, biting his lip and lifting an eyebrow himself hopefully. "It will be quite easy, really; just..._in. And out._"

Ten thousand licentious luscious lads.

In reality Tintin has never been this forward in social situations, has always patiently waited until the closure of an evening's festivities. Haddock actually often finds himself the more impatient one - though he has never been so forward himself, he has certainly sent his lover a good number of secret, instigating looks; and it is always the reporter who chastises him with panicked eyes and silent, mouthed negatives when nobody is looking.

Not here, though. In Haddock's imagination, the tables have turned.

"Yes, well," he replies, patting the youth on the shoulder. "If it's so simple, any reason you can't do it yourself, then?"

And with that he leaves the young man standing, perfect mouth agape in shock, to welcome a motley group of burly crewmen he hasn't seen in years.

- - -

The appetizers have hardly been sitting five minutes when Haddock feels a small hand rest on his knee.

"_Blistering-_"

"Captain Haddock!" Bianca near-shrieks unceremoniously from several seats away (but, Haddock pleasantly observes, still getting his name right!), "Do tell the girls how you came into this _charming_ abode!"

Haddock is petrified when he realizes all eyes are on him now. All eyes are on him, and Tintin's delicate fingers are moving up his thigh beneath the table. He turns to the lad, who is now on his third glass of red wine and is completely flushed, gazing back at him with unabashed want.

"Go on, tell them!" the boy urges a little too breathlessly, his palm suddenly slipping between the older man's legs and squeezing him through his trousers.

"THAT," the Captain shouts, leaping from his chair and nearly upsetting his own drink, "...is probably a story best told over dessert." He forces a polite smile. "Excuse me a moment."

- - -

He circles the outside of the manor once to gather his thoughts. Though he knows exactly what he's doing to the boy he cannot help but be overwhelmed by a sense of fear in the wake of Tintin's persistence; it is the same thrill he often has when he dreams of being chased, and it is completely separate from actually being chased on their adventures in that he just _knows_ something delightful is going to happen once he's found.

When he returns and goes upstairs to freshen up he finds Tintin waiting for him on the landing, leaning on the banister and sipping his wine. His tie is undone, hanging loosely on both sides of his jacket.

"What are you doing, mon cher," Haddock asks gently. "You should be in the dining room. People will start asking questions."

"Dash them all, I'm tired of waiting for what I _want_," Tintin replies, and he takes a large gulp of wine in desperation. "I try so _hard_-" his voice wavers and he punctuates his small fit with another gulp. The lad looks as if he is about to burst into tears. Though in reality Haddock would never want to see his love so distraught; such a hysterical, wanton mess - in his fantasy he allows himself the pleasure of knowing he's caused this.

Tintin grasps the Captain's sleeve and tugs him into a guest bedroom, yanking him along and whining like an impatient child when the older man digs his heels into the carpet.

"Tintin..."

"_But Captain..." _Tintin whimpers. The sentiment is as camp as it is ridiculous, but the fact remains that the boy is drunk and has already pushed him onto the mattress, straddling his hips. The Captain's stomach does a flip as Tintin downs the remainder of his wine, and he places his hands on the boy's hips to keep him from falling over completely as he struggles to put the empty glass on the bedside table. When the reporter finally succeeds he rights himself unsteadily, wavering a bit before unbuttoning Haddock's jacket and untucking his shirt, slipping his hands beneath it without hesitation.

"Tintin, we- we can't- _do _this right now."

The boy is already grinding against him shamelessly, filthy noises of intense arousal emerging from his mouth as the mattress begins to creak.

"Tintin..."

"God, Captain...please..."

"Tintin-"

"..._please_ fuck me..."

"Tintin-!" Haddock slips out from under him and the boy topples onto his side. "Tintin, this has to wait until after the party! Can't you of all people understand that? What's gotten into you?"

The boy has already spun around to face him, glaring at him reproachfully; but his visage softens and he looks utterly miserable as he crawls to the edge of the bed. "_Please_..." he whines.

The needy tone of his voice coupled with the roundness of his pink lips strikes something in Haddock and he feebly adjusts his inseam. "Look, just - after dinner, okay?"

"It can't wait until after dinner," Tintin replies, his voice suddenly dark.

"It's going to have to," Haddock declares, smoothing his tie and closing the door on the sorry picture of rejection.

- - -

When Tintin finally rejoins the Captain at the table dinner is already well under way.

The Captain had supposed the wait might have been due to the boy taking care of his problem on his own, but sees it is, in fact, not the case when the ginger appears from the corner of his vision, suit put back together but still looking thoroughly agitated in more ways than one.

Though all their guests are chattering unawares, the rest of the meal is tense for Moulinsart's two main residents. The entree of the night is roasted chicken; Haddock watches in amazement the boy carve his breast into perfectly-sized pieces, stacking onions on top of each one like a little tuft of grilled beige hair. He is so meticulous about the way he eats, even going so far as to keep everything separate on his plate. Haddock, on the other hand, well...within the first ten seconds of touching his plate he more or less created a casserole.

"I'm sorry, Tin," Haddock whispers to the reporter once he has finished, and grimaces when Tintin slams his fork down on the plate. There is a lapse in the drone of table conversation; Haddock waits until it resumes and tries once more to alleviate the situation, but the boy cuts him off before he has a chance.

"Am I not enough?" he suddenly blurts, looking into the older man's eyes with a challenging stare as the plates are cleared. "Or can you just not get _excited_ anymore?"

Tintin would never say such a thing in real life; he has never given any such indication of dissatisfaction, and if he ever did, he knows how deeply it would cut the Captain - and yet this is the moment where Haddock smiles in reality.

At the dinner table, however, he is briefly distracted, as dessert is now being served. Dark chocolate walnut pie with ganache and whipped cocoa topping.

After Nestor makes his rotation and takes his leave he whispers,

"You're gonna take that back, laddie."

Tintin observes him vacantly for a moment.

"Make me," he says, cutting into his slice of pie and guiding a piece to his mouth; and it's almost maddening how he is able to make even the most childish of comebacks sound resolutely adult. Then he proceeds to utterly and completely make it sound adult.

"Make me take it," he says, running a finger along the edge of his lips and collecting a spot of whipped cream left there, and then he slides it into his mouth.

All of the exposition Haddock has built up in his mind has come down to this. He takes a deep breath, tucking away his embarrassment at the thought of ever _actually_ doing what he's about to do, and then he does it.

He stands. Tintin clamors to put his silverware back on his plate, standing as well and taking the older man by the arm.

"If you'll excuse me a moment," Tintin says, his voice reaching the far end of the table, "The Captain is feeling under the weather, I'm going to go put him to be-"

Haddock swipes his arm across his placemat, depositing everything onto the floor.

"Captain, what are you do-" before Tintin has a chance to object, the Captain has gathered him up and forced him over onto the table, knocking a vase of flowers asunder. It dribbles water onto the tablecloth as Tintin cries, "Captain!"

Though the boy is facing away from him Haddock imagines being able to see his shocked eyes darting amongst the guests at the table, silently imploring for their help - but there is none to be had. At this point they are no longer an arrangement of friends and acquaintances; only a mere backdrop for the sweet, sweet humiliation the Captain is preparing to bestow upon his demanding date.

"Couldn't wait until after dinner, could you?"

Tintin cries, "That isn't what I meant-! Come off, now!"

"Wow, you are _bossy_!" the Captain observes in astonishment, and a small moan escapes the boy's lips when the latter relieves him of his trousers and and easily slips two fingers into his entrance.

"And you weren't kidding about soaking yourself..." Haddock chides.

"_Captaine_..." the boy implores in a warbly tone, snagged somewhere between pleasure and embarrassment, French and English. The older man withdraws his fingers.

"I suppose we might just stop now, then, if that's what you'd like," the Captain says in mock-gentleness, and the ginger presses a fist to his mouth, shaking his head hurriedly.

"We...we can't, now- I...I need..."

"In front of all these people?"

Tintin takes a worried inventory of all of the guests; who, though they should be scandalized, in Haddock's mind are all looking at the boy expectantly. They are not only condoning the bizarre punishment, but appearing rather merry and entertained as it were, almost as though they were watching a play.

"I...I'm sorry," Tintin whispers helplessly to them, whimpering again when the Captain's swollen, leaking cock begins to fill him, tauntingly slow.

"Oh, but we shouldn't be too hard on the poor lad, he can't help being such a trollop," Haddock says as his lover groans, gripping the tablecloth in both hands and struggling to get more of the Captain into him, _now_. "Ain't that true, love?" His palm connects with the ginger's arse and a loud clap resonates through the dining room as Tintin cries out, burying his face into the white fabric.

"_Oui_," he responds regretfully.

"Might I borrow your pie, please?" Haddock asks the man to his right calmly, as if he didn't have Belgium's most famous reporter bent across the dining table beneath him near-weeping in restrained pleasure. "Thanks!" he says simply and jovially, and he steadies the lad, dipping his fingers into the whipped cream and feeding it to the boy, who hungrily accepts it as if he has not eaten for days.

"Remarkable," someone comments as Tintin's eyebrows furrow and he runs his lips across the length of Haddock's fingers brazenly.

"Good boy," Haddock says, removing his fingers and bracing the youth's hips.

He thrusts the rest of his cock forward aggressively, forcing a surprised shout from the lad.

"Oh!...Oh! _Oh! Oh!_" Tintin wails as the Captain drives him further into the table with each thrust. Nobody seems to mind that there is dinnerware breaking; wine and water spilling and mixing together, staining the table beet pink. Somewhere behind him he hears Nestor sigh in irritation.

"_P-pourquoi est-ce qui se passe? Oh, Capitaine, pourquoi dois-je aimer ce si cher?! Toutes ces personnes...Dieu_, _mon Dieu, je suis vraiment une putain...!_"

"Haven't the slightest idea what you're saying, darling!" the Captain says cheerfully as he continues to pound the boy into the table, and before long his cock begins to feel heavier, twitching with impending release.

He can't come. Not yet.

He flips the boy over without stopping, and the sight he sees is a beautiful one.

Tintin lies heaving up and down beneath him, jacket open and sprawled to either side, tie flipped over one shoulder, whipped cream and chocolate smeared across his vest and neck and head, freckle-spattered face strained in aching pleasure. When he opens his eyes and catches sight of his Captain's face he suddenly gasps, hands releasing the tablecloth and grasping at the air madly before finding the Captain's jacket and clutching it for dear life as his back arches and he erupts across his yellow vest, decorating it with more white streaks. One of his hands absently leaves Haddock's chest and grips his own cock, assisting its finish as the boy squeezes his eyes shut and groans in satisfaction.

The ordeal does Haddock in; and he pulls himself out, a guttural whine emerging from his chest as he also empties his load across the boy's vest, though his orgasm is so powerful he manages to reach the lad's open mouth, and Tintin sighs contentedly as he holds his tongue out in cooperation.

It is with this image in his head that Haddock completes his little soiree in real life, heaving an exhausted sigh and wiping his hand. He lights his pipe, reclining in bed and basking in the afterglow of a very satisfying session...that is, until there is a knock at the door.

"Er- come in?" Haddock scrambles to cover up the mess with the duvet, placing his hat on his head and briefly considering to pretend reading, but Tintin is already in his bedroom.

"Captain, I spoke with Nestor and I don't think we're going to have time to make cheesecake before the party; would walnut chocolate pie do inst-" he looks up from fiddling with his tie to see Haddock lounging shirtless beneath the covers in what he had hoped was a casual pose, cap firmly sat crooked on his head and puffing his pipe as if he has run a marathon.

"...ead," Tintin finishes, wide-eyed.

"That-that would be fine, lad."

"People are going to be arriving in less than twenty minutes and you're not even dressed? What..." Tintin closes the door behind him and gives the older man a mischievous smirk. "...what were you _doing_ in here?"

"Nothing."

"That so?"

"Yep." Haddock awkwardly glances at the clock and back to Tintin, refusing to break his vow of silence.

"What say we do a little..." the reporter drinks in the sight once more. "..._nothing _after dinner tonight?"

The Captain winks and the boy bites his lip, turning to leave.

"_Or during_," Haddock utters.

"Come again?"

"Oh! Er...it's a date."


End file.
